


Jane and Tarzan, Scene 6 - E

by jro512



Series: Jane and Tarzan (Disney 1999) [7]
Category: Tarzan (1999)
Genre: F/M, Romance, Tender Sex, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 15:50:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14719070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jro512/pseuds/jro512
Summary: making it explicitly official





	Jane and Tarzan, Scene 6 - E

It is dark. More than dark. The dark is substance, is chill and dense. It restricts.

“Tarzan?”

Jane’s voice barely escapes her throat, a pathetic squeak. She gasps deep, muscles heaving, inhaling so little she cannot afford even another squeak.

Heaving, heaving against the darkness, a restraint snaps. Jane feels the tension of twenty more. She pants faster, gulping down air until her body strains to bursting.

Another restraint snaps. And another. They slip away over the back of her neck and across her abdomen and between her ankles with a slick, sluggish slime.

Another snaps, pulling at her hair. The breath that had filled her nearly to pain before lurches out in a stunted moan. The panic that had held her voice in the pit of her stomach comes out like wet cotton dragged from her throat. She gags.

“Tarzan,” she attempts. “Tarzan!”

Thunder rumbles. Lightning splits the canopy into a brilliant relief of flash and shadow.

Fat droplets of rain slap against Jane’s cheeks. She heaves again, her lungs greedy and ribs forced outward, and her breath reaches her muscles.

“Tarzaaaaaaannn!!” she shrieks. Flexing her fists upward toward the sky and straining against the ground, the remaining vines snap two, three at a time.

“Tarzan!” she screams.

A gunshot resounds. For an instant the storm seems still.

“Clayton…” The breath recedes from her chest and steals her voice once more.

Jane slumps forward from the mass of dissected vines. Limbs sapped and unsteady, she regains her breath and pushes herself upward. “Clayton.” The name escapes in an exhale. “Clayton, no.”

A gunshot, closer now, echo overtaken by thunder.

She is cold, skirt heavy and clinging, feet slipping and starting against the slimy layer of botanic decay saturated by the storm. Her legs ache with the effort of movement. She can see the lights of camp in the distance, but not the pinpoints of sharp white lantern flames. The horizon is orange and red and smoky, unnatural against the black of the jungle night.

Jane runs, wills herself through the sludge of resistance, stumbling, hips colliding with broad trunks, shoulders rebounded by wiry upshoots, and knees scraping against ancient roots like walls rising from the ground to hinder her. The rain stings at the back of her neck. “Tarzan!” The plea wins its way past the stricture in her chest, as if her heart is squeezed by the darkness.

“Tarzan,” she begins to pant in rhythm with her accelerating strides. “Tarzan. Tarzan. Tarzan!”

A gunshot rings in her ears now. She presses her hands against the sides of her head. The boom reverberates in her bones. When it recedes, she brings her hands down before her eyes. They are streaked with blood. Her eyes flit upward.

Tarzan stands before her. His brow is dark, his chin to his chest. Jane cannot see his eyes. He is shrouded in the darkness. Her hand darts outward toward him.

“Tarzan, NO!” she screams.

The gunshot pierces his chest.

 

~\~|~/~

 

Jane scrambles upright, the blankets falling to her lap. Humid air rasps down her throat and back out several times. His name comes to the tip of her tongue.

“Jane.” The warm notes of his voice are comfortingly close to her ear.

“Oh, Tarzan!” She wraps her arms around his shoulders and breathes in the smell of him. He returns her embrace and does not rush her to speak. After a long moment to let the remnants of the dream slip from her mind’s eye, she lets her hands slide back down to her lap.

He turns and lights the lamp beside the mat as she’d shown him in the dying sunlight. “Jane dreams Clayton.”

She can tell by the inflection in his voice that he means Clayton, the sound of the gunshot, rather than Clayton, the man. Tarzan rarely talks about Clayton the man. Clayton the savage.

The light dimly illuminates the creeping leafy vines that have overtaken the human home built decades ago high in the trees. Shoots of flowers and young trees reach through the slats of the floor. Green and lush fills every gap in the beams overhead.

“Yes,” she answers. “Only a short dream this time.”

“But same fear.” With two fingers, Tarzan touches the soft slope just left of her sternum, where her breast begins to rise away from her chest, where he’d listened to her heart months ago. “Dream night fear.”

She nods. “Nightmare.”

“Nightmare,” he repeats. “Clayton is gone,” he states with finality. This time, he means Clayton the man. “Fear will gone too. Nightmare will gone. Tarzan and Jane have love.” He holds her hand in his, palm to palm, fingers resting against one another’s wrists. His hands are exquisite, Jane thinks, broad rough palms and long lithe fingers, dexterous and tender.

“You are right.”

“I know.” One side of his mouth curves upward. “Only need Jane to have love.” He kisses her forehead, then presses his own forehead against hers. “Fear gone?” he whispers.

Jane is silent. Moments pass. The jungle night rustles. A board in the wall creaks.

“Jane?” Tarzan touches the underside of her chin with his knuckle.

Jane raises her eyes to meet Tarzan’s. The pools of stormy green are rendered gray in the dim light. A shaft of moonlight penetrates the greenery obscuring an opening in the roof and glints off of the gray.

Unabashed, Jane kisses her ape-man with a force exceeding that of her unexpected return on the beach. But this time there is no hint of embarrassment, of self-consciousness, no hint of intent to retreat. The heat that buzzes across his skin and ripples through his abdomen raises the hairs on the back of his neck. He cups her face and pulls himself into her kiss with an almost inaudible groan.

Jane pulls away so slightly. Eyes still shut, she caresses his cheekbone where it meets his hairline. “Tarzan, I miss London. I miss my home.” A tear glides down her cheek onto his palm where he cups her face.

Tarzan swipes it away with a gentle swish of his thumb. In a hushed and rasping voice, he vows to her, “Jane give up everything to stay with Tarzan. I will give up everything to make you happy.”

Another tear falls, and another chases it. “Tarzan, I…” Jane whispers. “I…” Tarzan kisses each tear that falls and holds his beautiful creature close. Her arms are pale and slender and soft, and as he tightens his embrace they press her breasts together and against his chest. His fingers trail through her hair and the smell of it is warm and invigorating. She softly repeats his name and before long the tears cease. Soon, she returns his kisses with the sweetness of her own.

“Tarzan…” Jane’s hands begin to explore the musculature of his shoulders, his chest, fingertips descending his ribcage and upper abdomen, taking in every rise and fall of breath, every sensation of warmth and tensed anticipation. “Do you know what it is to make love?”

Tarzan can’t resist another kiss. He tastes her deeper and nips her lower lip. “Not words, maybe. But I could show Jane.”

“I would like that, my Wild Man.”

He doesn’t need to hear another word, doesn’t need to speak either. He deftly unties the knot at Jane’s hip and slides her silken undershirt up over her head. He discards both skirt and shirt behind him.

Jane hasn’t been naked in the company of another soul since her mother changed her diapers. At first impulse, she crosses her arms, the fingertips of each hand touching the opposite shoulder. But Tarzan takes one hand, then the other, and kisses each knuckle, feather-light.

When his lips leave the last one, he looks up again into her eyes. “Jane is beautiful.”

And with that, Jane feels like the rush of every wave from every evening spent at the beach in Tarzan’s arms comes over her, and every “beautiful” that he insisted and that she politely rebuffed has returned and absolved her of her dutiful modesty, and she is no longer Jane. She is only Beautiful.

She rests her arms at her side and smiles. Tarzan lays her adoringly against the mat and with sweet kisses and unhurried, tender touches, he explores her body. He kisses her chin, brushes her ribs with his fingertips, licks and snuffles where the back of her ear meets her neck. Jane watches him for a while, watches his face and feels the heat grow in her cheeks and in her abdomen in reaction to his increasingly lustful gaze. When his mouth reaches her breasts, her eyelids waver and close and her mind sings wordlessly to the heavens. He kneads the soft flesh gently at first, almost cautiously, licking and nibbling and delighting in discovering the places that make her draw in a sharp breath or release a soft moan.

Jane’s hands wander across his back, relishing the tension and release of each finely developed muscle as he moves over her. His touch grows firmer. He leans onto his elbow placed beside her ear and kisses her deeply. One hand loses itself in her hair, and the other seizes her breast all at once against his rough palm. She squeaks in elation at this hint of the wildness in her jungle man’s longing. He lays kisses down her neck and returns his full attention to her breasts. Jane loses one hand in his tangled hair and the other slips down over the hillock of her belly and dips between the curls and folds below. Slowly, she begins to rub back and forth, catching a little more moisture with the tip of her finger at each stroke approaching her opening.

Tarzan takes notice. Jane scoots her feet outward a bit more and tilts her hips upward. Tarzan lays his hand over hers. He watches her movement and follows her fingers with his. Jane guides his index finger in a slow line up to the tip of her clitoris, then around, and around once more with increasing pressure. Tarzan studies intently. But when Jane directs his fingers in the opposite direction and up into herself, there is a hitch in his breath. His eyes flash toward hers, questioning and hungry.

She pulls his head close, lips to his ear. “That’s where you go,” she whispers, pushing aside his loincloth and grazing his head with two fingertips.

He exhales sharply and presses his forehead against hers once more. As if to be certain, he slips his fingers into her once more, deeper this time. Out again, and in, until the palm-side of his knuckles presses against her folds.

Jane’s toes curl. “I like that very much,” she sighs.

He continues to gratify her, to explore this absolutely unknown facet of his beautiful woman. He kisses each of Jane’s closed eyes as her hips begin to rock in rhythm with his fingers and her breathing quickens. He takes her hand and brings it toward his erect phallus. She feels the heat of it before her fingers make contact. Its thickness in her palm generates a craving inside Jane that she’s never experienced.

“Tarzan,” she rasps.

“Yes, Jane. Yes.”

She braces, unconsciously tensing against the unknown. The next seconds slide by like molasses. Tarzan fills her, and there is heat and pressure and a twinge of pain.

Tarzan groans, the breath pulled from his chest by the influx of sensation. So alien, yet incredibly pleasing. He feels tiny bumps on Jane’s thigh prickle against his hand. His brows furrow.

“Jane,” he whispers. He pauses, senses overwhelming his limited command of words. He feels Jane’s palm against his clenched jaw.

“Just go slow.” She hitches her ankles behind his knees and presses almost imperceptibly, initiating a cautious rhythm that Tarzan picks up in an instant.

The sensations in Jane’s belly morph rapidly. The heat remains constant, a backdrop against pressure first aching then melting into satisfaction, occasionally peaking toward pleasure. Tarzan’s breath grows hot and heavy against her neck. Moans, primal rumbles and murmurs, vibrations as he groans with lips pressed against her forehead, her jawline, her neck and ears. Rocking becomes thrusting. The heat spreads to Jane’s legs and beyond.

Tarzan inhales the scent of Jane’s hair and tastes her skin. The pleasure builds inside him toward ecstasy. “Jane,” he pleads, words escaping him entirely. “Need Jane, Tarzan need…”

“Yes, Tarzan. Yes!” she rasps.

The release is like nothing he’s experienced or imagined, even on his own in the jungle. He loses normally superb coordination for a moment; his shoulders give out and he slumps down onto his forearms, forcing a little “oof!” of air from Jane. Beads of sweat glide down the indentation of his spine. He recovers his balance and pushes himself upward, immediately scanning Jane’s face for any sign of distress.

“Jane,” he pants. “Beautiful Jane. Jane is all right?”

She smiles, bemused, attempting to slow her own breathing. “Do you know what the men say where I come from?”

Tarzan kisses his Jane on the lips for a long moment. “What do the England men say?”

“They say, ‘lie back, and think of England.’”

One corner of his mouth rises in a half smile. “I am not England man. I could think of only Jane, everything Jane.”

Jane places a palm against Tarzan’s chest, pushing him gently up and over to the mat at her side. She rests her cheek against her hand, one elbow propped against the mat. Tarzan gazes up at her.

“What does Jane think of?”

She smiles. She reaches for his hand, brings it closer. Then she unfurls her hand inside his, blooming to touch palm to palm.

Tarzan understands her meaning instantly. “You will always be in my heart, Jane. You are my heart.”

“And you are mine.” Jane smiles and her eyes glisten as joyful tears well.

Tarzan puts a hand at the back of Jane’s head and pulls her gently down, meeting her forehead with his. Their eyes close and Tarzan feels Jane’s tears fall onto his cheeks. He does not try to whisk them away; they are jewels, fleeting mementos of Jane’s happiness.

Tarzan decides he must learn how to please his woman even more than she pleased him. He smooths his palm over her belly, passing his thumb over the valley of her navel. Agile and callused, his long fingers return to the delicate, warm flesh between her thighs. It is wetter now, soaked with the fluids of her arousal and his satisfaction. Enthralled by the scent, he moves to his knees between her legs and probes with his tongue, first by the tip, then in long, languid swaths. He ventures to sucking and nipping and slides a finger inside her, then two. He explores her purposefully and attentively, with no impulse to rush, committing to memory the places and the patterns that cause Jane’s toes to curl, her breath to vary, her taste to change. With the hand still free, he caresses her thigh and presses his fingers into the firm, curving flesh of her buttock, enjoying all the tactile sensations his beautiful creature has to offer.

And steadily but surely, he drives her pleasure up the rise, ascending to whimpers and sighs and pleading moans, until her breath rasps at the edge of the glittering abyss, and she falls into it heart and soul. Tarzan pulls back just slightly as she pulses and releases a cry like Sabor in the night, a growling, high yowl of pleasure. He wipes his mouth against the back of his hand and blows gentle, cool air against her clitoris, sending shivers down her back and over her thighs. She reaches for him and pulls him over her like a blanket, nestling the curve of her nose against the opposing curve of his neck. With their abdomens pressed together, he feels her heart beating and her breasts rising in falling in decreasingly urgent cycles. Tarzan plants kisses like gentle raindrops over her cheek, her shoulder, and her hand.

He retrieves the blankets lost after Jane’s nightmare and pulls them back over their bodies. Wrapping his arms around Jane, he whispers the soft gorilla hoots and whispers that Kala had spoken to him as they nested for the night so many times so many years ago. It is not long before Jane slips into sleep, and Tarzan joins her, both dreaming of peace in each other’s embrace.

 

The next morning, Jane and Tarzan fly through the trees, outpacing Porter and Tantor and even Terk, to the highest point of his territory. With reverence and excitement, Tarzan sets Jane on her feet next to him and, pummeling his chest, lets loose the cry of victory and joy that all the jungle knows, reverberating to the sea and back for the love of his Jane.


End file.
